


hush, my darling (don't fear, my darling)

by earnmysong



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: “How do you feel?” [Hopper's] both genuinely interested and determined to keep her talking until Joyce returns from her search. “One to ten.”“One to ten?” She blinks, focusing more intently on him.“Yeah. One is - ” he grins widely, “ - and ten is – ” he reaches to toy with the well-worn accessory on her wrist.Otherwise known as: Everyone has a hand in putting El back together. Takes place during, and contains plot points of, the Stranger Things 3 finale,The Battle of Starcourt.





	hush, my darling (don't fear, my darling)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, _Stranger Things 3_ happened and I basically drowned in my feelings - which, in turn, led to an idea. The best way I can describe this: Imagine that the opening titles were an hour or so long. This is a story that unfolds after the fade-to-black, during the snazzy techno theme in the final episode. Read: Injured children must be fixed! Please note: I am in no way a medical professional, but I tried not to go too far out of the box. Also, I have been busy writing and have not indulged in any post-finale fic searches -- any overlap of theme or ideas was unintentional.
> 
>  _Stranger Things_ belongs to The Duffer Brothers et al. The title was borrowed from _The Lion Sleeps Tonight_ by The Tokens or *NSYNC, depending on your mood and preferences.

\----

“Anyone wants to tell me exactly how f-,” at the insistent dig of Joyce’s nails, Hopper coughs, softens, “ - screwed we are,” he rumbles, matching his tone to his deliberately measured steps, “that’d be fantastic.” His stomach’s been eating itself toward an ulcer since before noon yesterday and he’s just stomped a satanic shrimp slinking inches from his daughter and her friends. However, the freaked faces in front of him don’t deserve to deal with the rant he would love to let loose. His rage isn’t at them or about them, anyway; the feeling is general, not honed in on a specific target.

“Hop, I –” That’s as far as El gets into whatever she’s trying to tell him before pain completely crushes her expression. He’s been on the receiving end of that look before, just nowhere near this bad. 

(Slamming the gate shut in November left her out of commission for the better part of a week - exhausted, but not physically injured. Then April rolled in: the collective human tornado’s spring break. In some profoundly misguided desire to clue her in on ‘America’s favorite pastime’ - though, admittedly, none of the assembled company agreed - a baseball game had been organized. 

Never mind that the majority of them, with their fondness for activities that lacked the extensive employment of hand/eye coordination, hadn’t thrown a damn ball in their lives. A second issue arose when the geniuses forgot to advise her that retreating, or bringing her abilities to the party, would be a key player in saving her body from flying projectiles. By the time the group had slogged down to the cabin, Will’s curveball having curved horrendously off course, her face could have been borrowed from a scene in _Carrie_ , and the flood of her worst power-induced nosebleeds receded into a distant memory. The slightest touch to her nose rolled her eyes back into her head and set her squarely on the road to passing out – so off to the ER they’d rushed. 

That day, with its broken bone and seven needle sticks to run one IV, had been a hell of a maiden voyage for that birth certificate of hers.)

The waver in her voice sends him straight to her side, abandoning his pretense of calm. Images strike him, oddly, in order: Jonathan wielding a knife spattered darkly along its point; broken glass tinting rainbow in the faint neon light; the witnesses giving the impression that they’re deciding whether to heave until they drop, wail endlessly, or never sleep again; the red from the blade decorating a lot of the tile around El; her sock dripping sluggishly, adding to the hellish picture on the floor; her leg, purple and oozing and exposed. 

Running a gentle thumb over her tear- and sweat-soaked skin and smoothing her just-as-drenched hair, he substantiates his suspicions about the night’s events around the sour tang in his throat and his constantly gnawing stomach. “That mini demon come from inside you?” She nods, verifies his fear. 

“Jonathan tried to help, cut - ” she readjusts, grinds her teeth, “ - and find the flayer.” She smiles weakly over at the older of the Byers boys, arguably the poster child for the distraught bunch, his role in furthering her distress having finally hit him with full force. “Hurt a little less to rip it out myself.”

She sags heavily into Mike once she’s finished, as close to drifting off as if tonight found them at episode six of a, of late increasingly few and far between, Jessica Fletcher session – with her elbow-deep in a bag of Sour Patch Kids. That deal saw her falling asleep for a few hours, enlisting him as a pillow; he’d finally carry her to her bed around dawn. Now, though –

“El, honey.” He taps both her cheeks, bringing her around a little. “Good! Good! Keep those eyes open.” Shooting a kinder glance at Wheeler Jr. than he has in at least two months, the kid immediately realizes what he’s aiming for, sliding out from behind her and allowing him to maneuver in. 

Their dim surroundings won’t afford anyone, especially him and his old-ass, aging vision, a decent view of her wound. Moving will hurt her, and kill him in the process for having to, but he rotates in Harrington’s direction nonetheless. “The staff bathroom in Scoops locked?” He checks on El, makes sure she’s conscious.

Fumbling in the pocket of her skirt, Harrington’s fraternal twin of a coworker passes him a Hawkins High Marching Band lanyard, sporting her student ID, an employee badge, and her work keys. “There’s a _B_ Sharpied in the middle,” she laughs nervously. “I had the hardest time remembering the difference between them at the beginning of the summer.”

“Thanks, Robin.” She’d interned at the station for her Honors Government class’ service hour requirement last year and, in spite of all the shit happening, he can safely say that she’d totally outshone her peers, who were punks.

“No problem, sir! It’s to the right, on the far wall of the break-room. Oh,” she adds, “Steve and I scrubbed the whole thing on Monday during our shift. Prior to the Soviet Union’s revelation of attempted annexation of the United States.”

“We’re gonna get you cleaned up,” he whispers to El, waiting for her quiet _Okay_. Leaning over so she can see him, he delivers the not-so-fun logistics. “We've got to move you somewhere brighter first.” He grimaces on her behalf. “I swear it’ll be quick.”

Sucking in a breath and storing the air up, she loops her arms around his neck while they’re still situated on the ground, anticipating the change in position.

“How about an extra pair of hands?” Joyce offers when he’s on his feet and El’s agonized shrieks, muffled in the cheerful fabric of his shirt, ease up. “I raised two boys, Jim,” she assures his unspoken but, clearly, undisguised concern. “If evidence of practical experience counted for a degree, I’d have earned my nursing license by Will’s second birthday. Let’s go.”

Hugging El tightly to him, he hopes that he doesn’t accidently jostle her leg again in transit. Henderson’s frustrated – “No! No corndogs, no smoothies, and – for Christ’s sake – no reading material! Unless you stole some pamphlets from your comrade captors during our jailbreak. By all means, pass those around! Jesus!” – rings in his ears as he walks away.

\----

Hopper settles El on the edge of the bathroom sink, gripping her around the waist so she’ll stay even if she sways. With his free hand, he cranks the tap steam-hot. “How do you feel?” He’s both genuinely interested and determined to keep her talking until Joyce returns from her search. “One to ten.”

“One to ten?” She blinks, focusing more intently on him.

“Yeah. One is - ” he grins widely, “ - and ten is – ” he reaches to toy with the well-worn accessory on her wrist. 

“Oh.” Understanding fills the small syllable. “Eleven?” He struggles with this information, sorting through their available options and debating which will provide her the strongest relief in the shortest span of time. The weight of her hand against his chest calls his attention back. Her smirk flashes and disappears. “Joking.” 

Normally not someone who enjoys gullibility, he’s never been happier to seem a tad foolish than at this moment. “Ah, kid.” He swishes one end of her hair, the echoes of a familiar gesture evolving as she does. “You’re gonna be fine. Honest answer, please?”

“Maybe,” she pauses, “a five?”

“We can work with halfway.” The door clicks behind them; El startles, extends shaking fingers out past him. “Hey, hey.” He gently lowers her hand, wrapped in his, to her knee. “We’re safe.” Giving her unquestionable proof of the truth (not that it’s necessary because _friends don’t lie_ ) - at least for the present - Joyce materializes, sprinting while battling with the supplies she’s gathered. “See?”

“Just me,” Joyce says, coming in and unpacking her items. “Jonathan suggested I start at the Japanese restaurant. I didn’t have to try anywhere else! I couldn’t believe it! This,” she lifts the lid of a huge, ridiculously professional first-aid kit, “belongs in a trauma center, not a mall.” She takes out a spool of thread and a needle, in case he would benefit from an example. “Makes life easier for us, but now I’m wondering about the harm those chefs do to themselves on a daily basis.”

“Whoa.” Pressure tugs at his occupied arm, alerting him to El shifting. “Hang on. Where you off to? You almost gave yourself a decent dunk.” He pulls her forward, steering her clear of the brimming sink and shutting off the flow.

Following the path of her wide eyes and recognizing the threat, he grabs the offensive object from Joyce, conceals it inside its box. “Forgive me, sweetie,” Joyce gasps apologetically. “Totally slipped my mind.” His glance in Joyce’s direction amounts to: _Don’t beat yourself up._

“We might end up using the needle,” he warns her, shooting for neutral territory between realistic and soothing. “But it’ll be the last resort – what we go to if everything else in here,” he points to where the thing lies, “doesn’t do what we need it to.” 

“Promise?” she stutters.

“Promise,” he vows.

\----

Joyce and Hopper patch El back together as best as their combined knowledge of parenting flashbacks and noteworthy pleas for assistance from law enforcement will allow. Stitches win out in their showdown with butterfly bandages, overriding his aversion – thanks, chiefly, to Joyce’s frantic hiss of, “If that’s bone, Hop, tiny pieces of plastic and tape won’t do shit.” 

“Damn it,” he growls.

He climbs onto the sink, praying the surface doesn’t crack under his weight. (Height will give Joyce better flexibility, so a lower spot – say, braced against the wall – is ruled out.) The fact that he’s next to her now announces forthcoming doom to El more effectively than anything verbal.

“We need the needle?” 

“Sorry, honey,” he says, resigned, “but we kind of do. You’ll have less trouble in the long run if we close you up correctly.”

“I’m running?” 

“The future,” he chuckles. “As in – many, many years from you and me, here.” He brainstorms, blurts the first number that dawns on him. “2000! You could be on the other side of the world in 2000, being awesome at your job and just – really, really happy.” He nudges his shoulder with hers. “No black holes, right?”

“No black holes,” she repeats, holding on to his hand for dear life and letting Joyce know she’s ready. 

\----

El eventually leaves her seat, choosing instead to invade Hopper’s space, her uncompromised limbs draped over him in some form or another.

(He’d been all set to ask if she’d be more comfortable with an arrangement such as this before Joyce started. He could have told whoever asked that she’d be scared shitless. She’s a teenager, though, and has essentially transformed in front of his damn face since Christmas, so he’d thought better of proposing the idea.)

“Done!” Joyce proclaims triumphantly. “Look at these stitches for me, will you? They’re not crooked, are they?” She hesitates. “Although I’m not planning on tearing them out of her, right? So, really, does them being perfectly aligned matter?” 

“Nope. As long as they cover whatever was threatening to pop out of her and everything stays where it’s supposed to, we’re terrific and I owe you.” In an effort to satisfy her curiosity beyond any doubt, he bends around El; she’s been dozing since the sharp, foreign sensation of the stitching began to dull and the exertion of her ordeal had caught up to her. Squinting down, he only notices the thin line binding the skin along her calf. “Not diagonal or sideways. In other words, excellent. Final touches approved.”

“Guess all those homemade Halloween and D&D costumes paid off, huh?” Pressing iodine and a thick swath of gauze into place, she peels out of her gloves, and just sits for a second, studying him and his armload of lanky teenage girl. “You’re wonderful with her, and for her.” He can only stare. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! It’s true!”

“That means a lot, Joyce. Ninety-nine percent of it’s me navigating with my heart, not logic. Which usually lands the two of us in the middle of narrowly-averted disasters and monumental blow-ups.” He shrugs modestly. “But thanks.”

He almost expects the silence that they slip into, but the charged quality of it surprises him.

She saves him from his own awkwardness, gesturing at the gash on El’s forehead. “That’s still leaking. Should we try to tackle it?”

Assessing its severity, which doesn’t begin to approach the damage that she’s just handled, he shakes his head. “It’ll quit sooner or later. But I should probably – ” Folding so his frame about swallows El, he murmurs, “Rise and shine, kid.”

Stirring slowly, she slurs – “Finished?” – while she’s still mostly out of it. 

“Yep!” Joyce winks. “You did great!” 

She grins, drowsy and dreamy and so young that his chest aches.

\----

When all is said and done, their trio treks back out to the food court. All original parties, present and accounted for, crowd anxiously. El, the heroic patient, sprawls on the frame of a planter, her raw leg propped in Joyce’s lap and his arm slung over her torso while the opposite hand wads a napkin against the last of the blood on her face. Max laces a disposable cup into her grasp. “Part ginger ale, part water. My personal miracle cure.”

The younger generation obsesses over inspecting the remains of her war wound, subsiding when they’re reprimanded that unveiling an injury this recent will likely unravel Mrs. Byers’ careful precision and lead to infection. As nicely as Hopper thinks he releases this tragic possibility, Joyce glares menacingly at him. “Let’s circle back to an earlier, sanctioned topic,” he sighs. “How ‘end of the world’ is this apocalypse?”

Everyone explains, theorizes, and informs at once, tumbling over each other. He’ll have to slow them down, remind them to take turns, if he’s got a chance in hell of retaining their facts. 

In a minute.


End file.
